


Keeping a Close Watch

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 10:22:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5704156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there’s one thing that exasperates Merlin, it’s tardiness. Oh, and people touching his belongings without consent. Not surprisingly, Harry Hart—the newest Knight, Galahad’s replacement, and the bane of Merlin’s existence—fits the bill on both accounts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeping a Close Watch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RafaelaFranzen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RafaelaFranzen/gifts).



> Dearest [rafaelafranzen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rafaelafranzen), I sincerely apologise for being almost a month late with this Secret Santa gift, but I hope the length and content makes up for my terrible (or rather, lack of) time management. I think I managed to fulfill three of your suggestions, and alluded to one more? In any case, I hope you enjoy it!!

**1988**

If there’s one thing that exasperates Merlin, it’s tardiness. Oh, and people touching his belongings without consent. Not surprisingly, Harry Hart—the newest Knight, Galahad’s replacement, and the bane of Merlin’s existence—fits the bill on both accounts.

Without fail, Harry is always late. He is, at the very least, consistent with his tardiness. At every conference call or meeting with the rest of the Kingsmen, Harry will arrive 10 minutes later. It frustrates the hell out of him, but in the grand scheme of things, Harry’s tardiness to conferences isn’t really a huge issue, considering Arthur drones on in his monotonous, pompous voice for the first 10 minutes anyway. And if that isn’t bad enough, Harry insists on following him after each conference, jauntily swinging that godforsaken umbrella from side to side. Just like he’s doing at this very moment.

“Merlin.”

Merlin dutifully ignores Harry, choosing instead to silently count down the seconds before Harry tries again.

Five. Four. Three. Two—

“Merlin?”

There it is—predictable even in his exasperating mannerisms.

This time, Harry speaks in a drawn out whisper. “Merlin!”

Coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor, Merlin spins on his heel so quickly that they’re standing directly in front of each other, almost nose to nose. Funny, he’s never really noticed how tall Harry is—just a centimetre or so shy of his own height. Subconsciously, Merlin straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest, glowering.

“For goodness’ sake, what do you want this time?” Barely getting out of the trajectory of Harry’s long umbrella, he adds, “And quit swinging that bloody thing around like it’s a weapon. You’ll poke someone’s eye out like that.”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. “Good thing I have the protection of these nifty Kingsman-issue glasses, then.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. Oh boy, what he would give to punch that smug, shit-eating smile off Harry’s face. “You haven’t even read the manual for those glasses yet, have you? And to think you’ve already been here for a year.”

Clearly ignoring Merlin’s accusation, Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles widely. “An umbrella as a weapon—now there’s an idea. If John Steed can have one, surely a Kingsman can too.”

“John Steed?”

“The Avengers?” prompts Harry.

“No idea.”

“Does no one watch quality telly around here these days?” Harry comments dryly. He moves around Merlin and continues walking down the corridor, not bothering to wait for Merlin to catch up. “John Steed’s style is very reminiscent of Kingsman—a large emphasis on portraying the qualities and image of a gentleman while carrying out undercover work. He’s commonly seen wearing a three-piece suit—”

“—and I suppose this gentleman of yours also had an umbrella as a weapon.”

“Correct. It is, in fact, why I carry an umbrella around with me.”

Shaking his head, Merlin rounds the corner and raises his hand for the hand reader to authorise their entrance into the R&D department. The doors close behind them with a gentle swish, and the familiar interior of the department greets them.

Although there’s no sensitive material readily accessed from their immediate surroundings, the R&D department is the heart and birthplace of the organisation’s future technologies, and so it is one of the departments of Kingsman that requires a hand scan for entrance, as opposed to the regular key card used for almost all the other areas in HQ.

They wend their way around several tables and chairs to a nondescript door, and Merlin raises his hand to the corresponding hand reader, waiting for the familiar swish of the mechanical door before entering his office. Having quickly climbed the ranks in the R&D department due to his knowledge and innovation, the organisation has given Merlin a personal office to develop new technologies for the agency. Yet, without the pressure of his colleagues to keep his workspace clean, Merlin’s office has quickly turned into a haphazard mess of blueprints and half-finished inventions. Tidiness has never been his strong suit, especially when his creativity is concerned.

The state of Merlin’s office, however, does not seem to faze Harry.

Striding in after Merlin with an ease that belies a familiarity with his surroundings, Harry picks up a small, round data chip amongst the rest of the mess, asking, “What’s this for?”

“I’m working on improvements for the glasses—” Merlin glances at Harry, unable to resist commenting, “—you know, the one with the manual you haven’t read yet.”

Harry takes a moment to scrutinise the blueprints, squinting every time he comes across Merlin’s illegible scrawl. “Improvements for communication—good. I was having trouble receiving visual feed from Lucan the other day, but these modifications should fix the issue.” Humming thoughtfully, Harry adds, “Perhaps I could recommend an audio and visual translation function, too. Especially for deciphering your hieroglyphics. How do you—no, how does _anyone_ read your bloody handwriting?”

Merlin scowls. The translation function is a good idea, considering their organisation’s influence is steadily extending throughout Eurasia, but he’s not about to let Harry have the satisfaction of knowing that his idea has merit. 

“They don’t. These notes aren’t for them to see, and nor are they for you to see either. Now put that data chip down before you break it. These gadgets require a gentle touch.”

“I treat your creations with the utmost reverence,” protests Harry. Nevertheless, he returns the data chip to its initial location under Merlin’s close watch.  

“Need I remind you of the state in which you brought your transmitter back after your mission to Hungary?”

“A one-off occurrence, I assure you. If I had a reinforced apparatus to act as a shield, such as a modified umbrella, the outcome would undoubtedly have been different.”

Snorting loudly, Merlin readies a retort, but Harry has already directed his attentions elsewhere. 

“What’s this? I didn’t know you smoke.”

“It’s a grenade, Galahad.”

“In a lighter?” Harry’s eyes widen. “I can’t tell at all.”

“That’s the point.”

“I’m very impressed.”

And he really is. Merlin can hear the genuine admiration in Harry’s voice, in the way his face is lit up with barely restrained excitement and awe.  

“Incredible,” Harry breathes. “Every time I come here, I’m reminded of why everyone calls you the wizard of Kingsman. The title is very fitting.” He turns the small weapon around in his hands, carefully examining it from every angle. “When will this be available for the Knights to use?”

“The design needs Arthur’s final approval and Lucan’s input, so not for a month or so, I imagine. It’s a prototype, so put it down before you blow up my office,” Merlin orders gruffly, leaning against the edge of his desk. Frowning, he crosses his arms across his chest. Harry’s unabashed admiration has him feeling out of sorts—he’s never been one to seek out or enjoy praise for his inventions, yet Harry’s words has evoked a sense of pleasure in him. It’s strange.  

Standing opposite him, Harry continues, “I suppose disguising a weapon as an umbrella would be a piece of cake for you.”  

Merlin barks out a laugh. “Persistent, aren’t you. Flattery will get you nowhere, Galahad.”

“It was worth the try,” Harry says, flashing Merlin the shit-eating smile from earlier.

Surprisingly, the urge to punch Harry in the face that usually accompanies it doesn’t surface this time. Merlin does, however, feel the need to relentlessly needle Harry instead. Heck, he hasn’t felt this immature—this _juvenile_ —since his high school days.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

“Overstayed my welcome, have I?”

“I don’t believe I ever offered it. You did follow me for no apparent reason, in case you’ve already forgotten.”

“Ouch. Not that this place is very welcoming, mind you.” With the hand not holding the umbrella, Harry waves at the room in a wide, sweeping motion. “Not with this mess.”

“I know where everything is, which is more than sufficient. After all, I hardly expect any visitors.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” Merlin raises an eyebrow, mildly disconcerted by Harry’s sudden lack of response. 

The corner of Harry’s mouth tips upwards into a knowing smirk. “Perhaps it’s time to change that.”

“What?” The implication of his office losing its familiarity in favour of bare surfaces and neat piles of paper, or even worse, the thought of more people having access to his haven mortifies Merlin. Especially considering that Harry is at the heart of the suggestion. “Change what, Galahad?”

“Oh dear, would you look at the time. I’m late for my meeting with Lucan.”

And with that, the doors swish open, and Merlin watches Harry walk through them, swinging his umbrella in that irritatingly careless and dangerous fashion.

Sinking into the familiar comfort of his chair, Merlin replays the past twenty minutes in his mind, quietly and slowly processing the events. It could have been worse, he supposes. After all, Harry could have—Merlin whips around, and as anticipated, the space where the lighter was is now empty. 

“Sneaky bastard.”

 

* * *

 

**1993**

According to Lucan, Harry should be in Lebanon, but there’s only one other handprint calibrated to his office’s hand reader, so it only comes as a mild surprise when the door to his office opens and Harry strides in. He looks tired, but his eyes are twinkling and a wide grin spreads across his face when his gaze falls on Merlin. Merlin can’t stop a small, yet exasperated smile from appearing on his own face in return.

“How is it that you come back from a mission two days early, but you’re ten minutes late to every single conference?”

“The mission was completed faster than we anticipated. It certainly helped that the Arabic dictionary is properly integrated into the glasses’ language database now. The functionality of these has certainly gone a long way,” Harry says, habitually pushing the glasses in question further up the bridge of his nose.

“Or perhaps you just got around to reading the manual,” Merlin ribs gently, watching Harry prop his umbrella against the wall before sinking into a chair in the corner of the room, sighing with undisguised pleasure.

The sofa armchair—Harry’s chair, as Merlin has dubbed it in his mind—has become a permanent fixture to the landscape of his office, ever since that day five years ago Harry made it a point to visit regularly. To his surprise and irritation, later that day Harry had waltzed in with another Knight, cleared an area for the piece of furniture, and there it had stayed.

Despite Harry’s claims, Merlin is still convinced Harry’s choice to drop by his office frequently was a choice made to vex him, and vexed him it had—until Harry left for a month-long mission at the end of the year, and suddenly his office had seemed a little too empty, a little too quiet, and a little too messy.

After that, the slide into a more established friendship had followed naturally.

While their earlier interactions were laced with irritation and, at the worst of times, malice—at least from Merlin’s side—all that remains now is a friendly, playful banter that often constitutes a healthy amount of their casual conversations.

“I do look at the manuals—”

“And I bet that’s all you do: look at it while the cover is still closed.”

Harry laughs, the low timbre of his voice filling the room. “Touché.” Bringing their conversation back on track, he addresses the rest of Merlin’s earlier question. “There’s more incentive to completing a mission earlier than making it to a conference in time for the old windbag’s monologue. You should come late to the next one; Arthur really isn’t worth it.”

“You know I dislike tardiness.”

“Tidiness, too, unfortunately.” Leaning forward in his seat, Harry casts a critical eye over his surroundings, exasperation crossing his features. “Bloody hell, Merlin. How did your office get so messy when I just cleaned it last week before I left?”

“I dislike it when you clean too,” Merlin mutters, a scowl deepening the lines on his forehead and between his brows.

“I wouldn’t clean your office if you actually did it yourself.”

“I’ve told you before, it doesn’t _need_ cleaning.”

“Normal people like having a bit of floor to walk on.”

“Well then, perhaps I’m not normal.”  

Raising an eyebrow, Harry looks Merlin up and down, slowly and deliberately. His mouth widens into the shit-eating grin, something Merlin has gotten used to over the years. “No, you most certainly are not.”

Huffing loudly, Merlin tosses his head back. “Fuck off.”

“You’ve missed my brand of humour, admit it.”

Shooting Harry a withering look, Merlin deftly changes the subject in favour of inflating Harry’s ego any further. It’s an abrupt change from their current pace of conversation, but it’s something he intended to bring up with Harry once he returned anyway, and what better time to do it than now. “Lucan mentioned she intends to retire from the position of Quartermaster.”

Sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, Harry makes an affirming noise, urging Merlin to continue.

“With Arthur’s approval and input, she’s named me as her successor.”  

Quietly, Harry studies Merlin, reading all of the things left unsaid in his facial expression and body language. Under the gruff exterior and scathing wit is a complex, sensitive, and at times, fragile man, and it’s taken Harry the better of five years to discover him. Even now, he’s still learning new facets of Merlin’s character every day. Choosing his words carefully, Harry says, “I would offer my congratulations, but you don’t look like you want it.”

Heaving a great sigh, Merlin fiddles with his watch. Eventually he mutters, so quietly that Harry has to strain his ears to hear him, “It’s a great responsibility.”

“One which you’re more than ready for,” Harry reassures. He leans forward to pin Merlin with a look so intense that Merlin feels the need to draw back from its intensity. “I would feel safe and secure with the knowledge that you were on the other side of the earpiece, monitoring and guiding my every move.”

Merlin makes a non-committal sound, but he can feel his neck and ears grow warm from Harry’s unabashed show of trust. He frowns.

“When do you start?”

Thankful for the distraction, Merlin launches into a lengthy answer that would ordinarily only take him a handful of words. “Officially, they want me to start in August, so six months’ from now with a handover period of two months following that, which is shorter than I’d prefer considering that the role of Quartermaster covers a lot of ground and knowledge based on experience is paramount in the role. But Lucan will still be in the organisation and available to help in dire situations or to fill in as a handler if we have too many Knights out at the same time. She’ll just be taking on a different, less demanding position, which also means I’ll keep my name as Merlin.”

He knows he’s babbling—hell, he hasn’t done that since Arthur chewed him out when he first joined Kingsman—so with great effort, he clamps his mouth shut and waits for Harry to fill the silence.

“I see. Sufficient time for you to get used to the idea, at least.” Standing up, Harry traverses the room, making a beeline for a gadget that has caught his eye. While closely examining what appears to be a small camera lens, he asks, “I suppose you won’t have this office anymore, will you?”

From where he sits, Merlin casts an eye around the messy room—the shelves are bursting with papers and blueprints, once bare surfaces are littered with gadgets still in progress, and stacks of books and folders rise up from the floor. It really has gotten quite messy in Harry’s absence. Eventually, his gaze rests on Harry. “No. I’ll still have the resources available to me to continue creating technology for Kingsman if I desire, but first and foremost, my obligation and duty to Kingsman will be as its Quartermaster.”

“Oh, brilliant. There’s still hope for my modified umbrella on the side, then.”

Merlin snorts. “You’re still harping on about that?”

“And you still haven’t made it yet,” Harry rejoins, setting the lens down and returning to his chair. He runs his hands up and down the arms of the sofa armchair, and after a moment’s pause, he murmurs, “I’ll miss this place.”

Nodding slowly, Merlin recalls the many conversations they’d had in this very room.

“As will I.”  

 

* * *

 

 

**1998**

They’re ensconced in the lounge of Merlin’s city flat, surrounded by a hotchpotch of knick-knacks in a room that is distinctly Merlin. To any outsider looking in, the scene almost has a domestic quality to it—two men quietly drinking tea in front of a warm, crackling fire—yet the atmosphere in the room is rife with a thick, heavy tension. A plate of biscuits sits untouched on the mahogany coffee table.

Looking anywhere but at Merlin, Harry glances around at his surroundings. It’s a far cry neater than Merlin’s workspace, but that’s no surprise considering that Merlin spends most of his waking hours at HQ lately. Many hours he’s spent in Merlin’s office, simply sitting in his own sofa armchair while Merlin pores over books and screens, or on rarer occasions, watching Merlin snooze. There’s a sofa bed pushed up against the wall for the times Merlin’s too tired to make it to his own flat—an occurrence Harry believes happens far too frequently.

Snorting gently, Harry’s gaze falls upon the golden turd still sitting proudly atop the fireplace mantel. All 15 centimetres of it, and the small, red, silk pillow it is nestled in. It’s the first of many gag gifts from James.

Given the nature of their work, a trip to a different country hardly constitutes as a holiday or an opportunity to buy souvenirs, but over the years as a token of thanks for keeping their sorry asses safe once more, an unspoken understanding developed amongst the agents and the tradition of bringing back something for Merlin after each mission was established.

“Something funny?” Merlin grinds out, drawing Harry back to their present situation.

Having just taken another sip of his tea, Harry uses his teacup instead to gesture towards the golden turd. Merlin’s gaze follows, and the stern lines on his forehead soften as he makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a derisive snort. The tension diffuses.  

“Yes, well. I did move it somewhere less conspicuous, but the last time James visited he moved it back again. James means well, but I wish he would choose less—” Merlin fumbles for a moment, his brow furrowing as he searches for the right word. “Less _gaudy_ souvenirs.”

They both turn to the golden turd again, and then burst into laughter.  

“Gaudy is a fucking understatement, I think.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Aren’t you glad I have much better taste than James?”

Merlin raises his teacup in obvious appreciation. “This _is_ one of the better blends you’ve brought back.”

“Is this the one from Saudi Arabia or Egypt?”

Something flickers across Merlin’s face, but it disappears before Harry can place it.

“Egypt. It has red packaging and _karkady_ written on it.”

“Oh yes, the hibiscus tea.” Harry peers into his cup, momentarily watching the gentle movements of the dried petals that had made it past the strainer. “I’ll try pick up something from Vietnam for your collection.”

Merlin grunts in affirmation, and their conversation peters out into a stifling silence once more, stretching out until Harry can take it no longer. Shuffling in his chair, Harry positions himself so he can see Merlin’s face clearly.  

“Out with it, Merlin. What’s been bothering you? You’ve been worse than Bedivere, and everyone at HQ knows he has a stick permanently jammed up his arse.”

Merlin doesn’t even crack a smile. Pursing his lips, he turns to Harry and heaves a sigh. “You’re leaving again.”

“That’s what this is about?”

Scowling with the ferocity that has caused many Kingsman candidates to shrink back in fear, Merlin growls, “Of course that’s what this is about.”

“You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“Because you never came back almost dead before,” Merlin snaps back, slamming his teacup on the table with such force that some of the hot drink sloshes over the sides. “Hell, you were only discharged last week with strict orders to take it easy and now you’re off again on another mission?”

“You know as well as I do that this mission falls under my jurisdiction.”

“Oh, and I suppose trying to play the hero when you were in Saudi fell under your jurisdiction too.” Merlin’s mouth curls into a bitter sneer. “Just what the fuck were you thinking?”

“It was—necessary.”

“Bullshit. I might not have been able to be your handler for that mission, but Lucan told me what happened. You should have waited for back up before engaging Basara, but instead you—” Merlin pauses, running a hand over his bald head and then sighing once more. The anger and bitterness has fallen away, and all that remains is clear resignation and hurt. “You know what, forget it. I don’t want to have this conversation.”

He doesn’t mention the way his insides had clenched when Lucan had broken the news to him. He doesn’t mention how he stalked outside to shout his frustrations to the sky, not caring if he was drenched by the torrential rain. He doesn’t mention the many hours he spent keeping vigil by Harry’s bedside, watching his chest rise with each laboured breath, listening to each pained groan. He doesn’t mention how he’d clasped Harry’s hand, bringing it close to his heart while desperately praying for him to wake up. To live.

He doesn’t mention any of this; instead, he stands up to leave the room. Harry grabs his wrist, gripping tighter than anticipated. “Sit down, Merlin. I think we do need to have this conversation.”

“Harry, unhand me. It’s fine.”

Harry laughs wryly. “It’s fine? It clearly is _not_ fine. _You_ clearly are not fine.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin mutters, “But will you be?”

Harry remains silent. They both know that in their line of work, it’s something he can’t promise. “I’ll take care,” he offers, finally loosening his grip on Merlin’s wrist.

For a moment, Merlin glowers, and then the deep creases marring his forehead smoothen, changing his countenance completely. Nevertheless, the bite in his words is still evident. “Have some fucking sense of self-preservation, you bastard.”

He won’t ask for more—he _can’t_ ask for more—but there is something he can do, and has done.

“Wait here.”

Although he is the only one living in his flat—and that’s using the word _living_ in the loosest sense, given the number of hours he actually spends there—the flat is clearly designed to accommodate two or three people. Making his way down the corridor and past the spare bedroom, Merlin unlocks the door to his small study room. By an unspoken agreement, it’s the only room Harry doesn’t have access to. Most of the sensitive material Merlin stores at HQ, so his study room only houses items he doesn’t want Harry to be privy to: gifts for special occasions, and certain inventions and their corresponding blueprints. After all, Harry still possesses that keen sense of curiosity that drives him to pick up something as soon as he enters Merlin’s office.

What he’s after is propped up against the far wall—a long, slender, black box, tied together with a green ribbon. In a fit of anger and guilt following Harry’s almost fatal injuries, he’d unearthed a set of blueprints that he’d begun almost a decade ago. Every moment not spent by Harry’s bedside, he spent holed up in his HQ office, slaving away on his personal project. Now that it’s complete and Harry is finally discharged, he’s just been waiting for the right time to give it to Harry.

He’s never been good with words, and this gift expresses more than he could ever hope to say.

Returning to the living room with a purposeful stride, Merlin suddenly stops short when he sees the forlorn expression on Harry’s face, the dejected slump of his shoulders. The flames in the fireplace dance and flicker with no pattern or rhythm to it, mirroring the myriad of conflicting emotions flickering across Harry’s face. Merlin’s heart lurches in his chest.   

He swallows past the lump in his throat, harrumphing loudly to announce his presence. Quietly, he watches as Harry shores up his emotional barriers again, repositioning to face Merlin.

“What’s this?”

Clearly, a gift is the last thing Harry had been expecting when Merlin left the room. Merlin understands—as Harry had pointed out earlier, his behaviour and emotions have been all over the place this week, let alone tonight.

“Open it,” he says, gruffly, yet almost apologetically, as he holds out the box towards Harry.

Despite his inherently curious nature, Harry takes his time unravelling the ribbon, and not for the first time, Merlin wishes that Harry would act with some sense of urgency. His stomach is tying itself into impossible knots as he waits. Finally, the green ribbon falls away, and Harry lifts the lid from the box. 

“It’s the same as my umbrella?”

“Not exactly the same,” Merlin corrects. “But you’ll have to read the manual to find out.”

Realisation dawns, and Harry positively beams _._ “I will.”

The knot in Merlin’s stomach loosens, and Merlin feels like he can finally breathe again. “Bring it back safely. It’s the only one, and I still want to make improvements on it.”

With suspiciously bright eyes, Harry’s fingers trace the wooden handle with a quiet reverence. His voice wavers slightly as he catches Merlin’s eyes, and an understanding of the things left unsaid passes between them. “I will.”

_Bring yourself back safely—to me._

_I will._

**Author's Note:**

> [The golden turd in question](http://www.flightcentre.com.au/travel-news/inspiration/tacky-souvenirs/) (scroll down to the very bottom).


End file.
